A Poem About Olives (I)

(Staring At Leftovers That Are Not Mine)

Cold and stationary,
Standing here, hands
Gripped I am waiting.
The Old Bosses
Gathered in every stereotypical
Cliché. Ah…
They enjoy it.
Shoe stores pipe fitters,
A Polish
Journeyman…disconnected
Again, not
Minding it in the least.
A Tupperware cup
Of Olives,
Black,
Entire Universes and
Meshed over day-old salad. If I were
To reclaim the cold even more,
I would see myself in the depth of black
Eyes. I would not
Eat the olives…they are too perfect
There, a culinary tableau which does not
Have to mean a thing to
Me.
Laughing, rapping with
Hardened knuckles and
The intensity of a veteran
Who is hungry and proud.
The brevity of the
First generation.